Out of Ashes
by apostleofanime
Summary: A thirteenth chapter to Golding's Lord of the Flies


_This was originally an English assignment. I wanted to explore how Ralph and the other boys would act after the island._

* * *

Ralph awoke to the sensation of gentle swaying beneath him. He could hear the soft sound of water, and footsteps in the distance.

The beach? He must be on the beach, then. But he couldn't feel any wind on his skin, and there was always wind in on the beach. The air around him was unmistakably still, and seemed…. Stale. It smelled of things he had long forgotten, of dust and oak and clean sheets.

With a slight wince, Ralph opened his eyes. It was dim where he was, but with artificial light, not because of fading sunlight. He was inside. He had four walls around him, and he was lying in a bed, with sheets, and pillows, and pyjamas. His hair was no longer crusted and matted, and his skin did not ache with redness from the sun.

There was a soft knocking sound at the door. Ralph tried to sit up, but yelped at the effort. It felt as though his every muscle had been beaten, and there was a sharp pain in his side. He dimly remembered the sound of sharpened points whistling through the air, and sensation of skin and flesh tearing from his body. The door slid open, and a familiar figure stepped through it.

"Samneric?" Ralph spoke, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper.

The boy's face was a map and black and blue patches, spreading themselves along his tanned skin; the gruesome colours filling the spaces where clear youthfulness should have been. His eyes had a haunted, cautious look about them, as though he were unsure whether it was safe to enter the room.

"Samneric, it's me. It's Ralph." Ralph tried again, and Samneric (it was only one of them, why was that?) stepped forwards, walking towards the bed.

"I didn't think they left you alive. I thought they went after you so they could catch me." Ralph paused, unwilling to speak the names of the peers who had so happily hunted him like the pigs they devoured with such ferocity. "Which are you? Where's the other one?" The boy's face contorted briefly, into an ugly look of hurt.

"Sam. I'm Sam. Eric is…." Sam stopped taking a deep, heaving breath, the rise and fall of his chest coming raggedly, as if he had just run a long way. "They took him, Roger, and he…." Sam stopped again, shutting his eyes tight.

Ralph did not speak. What was there too say? The events of the last days on the island still hung behind his eyes like a bloody curtain, clouding his thoughts.

"And then the fire, and he- he- I lost him and" Sam stopped and let out a great sob, full of grief and rage and far too heavy for a boy so small.

Ralph stayed silent, letting Sam's cries slowly soften and fade.

"Where are the others?" Ralph asked, half unsure he wanted to know the answer. Sam gulped several times before answering.

"The man who got us, the one in the uniform. He's with the Navy, we're on a ship. We're going to Ireland." Sam replied.

"Ireland? Why aren't we going home?" Ralph asked, though he thought he already knew the answer.

"It's gone. England. It's all gone, it got all blown up. Nothing left there, anymore." Sam said, his voice more resigned than upset. England was no longer home to them, had not been for some time. However distant a concept it may have become, it had still been the beacon Ralph had clung to, what had kept him going, his hope of seeing that familiar nation rising like the smoke that had brought them to this ship in the first place. But it was gone, now, along with the stone house in Yorkshire, the boarding school with its menacing gate and bullying bigguns. All gone now, burned up like the island, both homes he had known reduced to ash. It was so silly Ralph almost wanted to laugh. Then he did. Sam stared at him with a scared expression.

"All of it. We tried so hard and it's gone." Ralph let out a high pitched giggle. "They're dead and it all burned and now it's all just gone!" Ralph's laughter began to turn hysterical. "All that and they're just gone, Sam. It's all so silly, don't you see?"

Sam began to back out of the room, and Ralph just continued to laugh.

"All gone! All gone!"

* * *

Lieutenant Michael Marwick considered himself to be a practical man. He liked to think things through. He never made a move without considering all of the possible outcomes. He was a well-seasoned, worldly man. However, he had never, not in all his travels through the Commonwealth, seen anything like the scene on the island.

The boys they had brought in from the island had caused no trouble on the ship. They had cleaned up nicely, each given fresh clothes and a haircut. They were well behaved, quiet and respectful, around himself or the other officers. There were small instances, however, that left Michael uneasy. Each boy seemed eerily loyal to one of the older ones, Jack. His word seemed to be their own law, and the group seemed to subtly defer to him for approval before making any decisions, be it going on the deck of the ship or going to dinner. The only one who stayed out of the group was Sam, another one of the older boys. He seemed quite melancholy, though none of the officers had been able to coax a reason out of the boy. The child also seemed to flinch away whenever put in proximity with Jack, or one of the other boys, Roger.

Well, the boys had been through a lot, thought Michael. They'll be fine soon. They are good British boys, after all.

* * *

Ralph lay in the cool dark of his room. One of the soldiers had been in a few hours ago, to check the wound on his side and inform him that they were still about two weeks from Ireland.

Ralph's brief hysteria seemed to have passed, but Sam had not come back. Ralph could not help but wonder about the circumstances surrounding Eric's death, There was no doubt in his mind that Jack, or perhaps more likely Roger, had killed him.

Ralph felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps if he had not gone to Samneric for help after they had been indoctrinated into the tribe, Eric would not have been killed.

Suddenly the darkness felt like it was swallowing him, and Ralph turned on the lamp next to his bed. The light illuminated the room, chasing away the shadows that haunted the dark corners and crannies.

Suddenly the door opened. At first the figure was backlit so Ralph could not see him, then it stepped forwards, and Ralph found himself wishing he could not.

"Ralph." It said, voice emanating from a tanned face, framed by red hair.

Jack.

"They said you were here."

Ralph was frozen in place, unable to speak. He felt as he had in the presence of the pig's skull, terrified and unable to do anything about it.

"I thought I would come check on you."

Check on him? What was this? As shaky as his mind may be at the moment, Ralph distinctly remembered Jack hunting him down to kill him. Was that why he was here? To finally finish the job?

"Are you all right?" Jack continued, his voice holding a note of concern.

Ralph took a shaky breath. "If you're going to kill me, get it over with. I can't run from you anymore."

"Kill you? Why would I do that?" Jack said, voice high with tones of confusion. "I mean, surely you'll not tell. It was only a game, after all. Remember? All the dancing and singing. Just a game."

"What about Simon? What about Piggy, and Eric? Was that a part of the game?" Ralph replied, voice quivering.

"Well, of course not. Don't be silly. No one got hurt in the game, remember? No one. It was the beast, don't you remember it? We only just got out ourselves. It was the beast that got them, tore them all up. We didn't do anything." Jack repeated, his tone insistent.

Ralph wasn't sure what to do. Did Jack really not remember? No, that was impossible. He had been the one who instigated it, who had gathered the hunters. He was the reason Piggy, Simon, Eric, and who knows how many others were dead.

"We didn't do anything, Ralph. Don't you remember? There was that terrible beast. Remember, Ralph?" Jack's voice took on a new, darker tone, and suddenly Ralph understood. The game was not over. If Ralph told, if he did anything at all, Jack would kill him. There was no doubt that either he or Roger or perhaps one of the other loyal hunters would kill him. And besides, even if he did tell, who would believe him? No one. Jack knew that, this threat was only insurance.

"Of course." Ralph's voice came out as a choked whisper. "Just a game. The beast."

Jack's smile was a vicious, twisted thing.

"I knew you would remember."

With that the other boy nodded, like some agreement had been reached, and turned around, leaving the room. Only when he was gone did Ralph realize that his heart was pounding, and his skin was coated in cold sweat. His fingers were grabbing tightly onto the sheets of his bed, and his breathing was harsh and uneven.

Ralph knew, then, that he would carry the truth of the island with him his entire life. No one would ever know about the killings carried out by Jack and his hunters, or however many littluns died in the fire.

It would stay with the boys until they died.

* * *

 _Twenty years later_

Ralph stood in front of one of the many television screens in the shop, staring at it. On the screen was a familiar face. Or, to be more specific, two familiar faces, but one was far more prominent.

 ** _Jack Merridew Elected as England's Youngest Ever Prime-Minister_** the screen read, huge letter flashing below the live video feed.

Jack was shown standing at a podium, grinning and pumping a fist into the air. Behind him, off to the side of the screen, was Roger, all decked out in his military dress uniform.

Ralph had heard in passing about the pair's exploits, but did not (was afraid to) pay much attention. Roger was credited by the Right with bringing about English victory in the war against the USSR as the greatest General of all time, and damned by the Left for what they said to be crimes against humanity, caused by the use of unnecessary force, and the suspicious death of all his ex-superiors who had been in line for his current position.

Jack's political success had been met with similar scrutiny by the left wing groups. His campaign was also shrouded in mysterious death and resignations, though it was not as easy to accuse him of killing people on Downing Street as it was to accuse Roger of heinous crimes on the battlefield.

Ralph had no doubt they had slaughtered their way to power, and he had no doubt that they would get away with it. The same way that the boys on the island had followed them and gone along with whatever they said, so too would the people of Great Britain. It was almost funny, to Ralph. It was not different outside the island. People had the same passion for violence, still loved to kill. It was simply done in uniform, and was therefore excusable.

Ralph knew he had enough information on the both of them to end their careers by the end of the week, if he so wished. He was not as afraid of them as he had been as a boy. He saw little point in exposure, though. As people he knew continued to leave home to fight in the east, Ralph had begun to realize that what he had seen and felt on the island, it was the same here.

He had not seen Jack since they got off that boat on the southern Irish coast. Not in the flesh, anyway. He obviously saw him on screens and on paper, and in his dreams where he was back on the island, still running from spears and fire. He seldom came into town, however, and had no television or newspaper at home. He lived a good ten miles outside of the small British town, and only came in when absolutely necessary. Usually he only had to enter the centre area where the shops were once a month, for food and supplies, and otherwise never went further than the outer market, where he would sell the day's catch to the local fish monger.

Ralph turned away, clutching the tube for his boat's radio. That was the only reason he had this rare trip into the centre of town. He knew he couldn't take the boat onto the water with a broken radio, and no boat meant no fish, no food, and no money. He made his way through the shop, past the few late night stragglers who were staring at the screens. A new Prime Minister was a big deal for most, Ralph supposed.

He walked up to the cash, vaguely aware that he smelt of fish, hoping that the clerk would just ring up his purchase and leave him be, but of course he had hoped in vain.

"New Minister seems to be a smart young lad, eh?" The clerk said, wrapping the tube in brown paper.

"Hm." Was Ralph's only reply. He truly did not want to get into a discussion about his thoughts on Jack Merridew.

"He's a real proper leader, that Merridew. I can tell. Good head on his shoulders."

Ralph again did not reply, choosing to avoid any conversation regarding Jack and leaders and whether or not heads where on shoulders. He simply handed the clerk a twenty pound note, collected his change, and left the shop.

Climbing into his little car, he began making his way out of the town, and onto the dark side roads that led to his cottage. It was a small building, fashioned out of stone, sitting on the edge of the water. It smelt of salt and brine and fish, and smoke from the little shack where he smoked and salted his fish.

Going inside, he noticed the letter from Sam that lay forgotten on the kitchen table, still unopened. He would read it later. He and Sam made contact periodically. He didn't think either of them knew how or why their letter writing had started, but Ralph supposed it was good to know the other was alive somewhere. Sam was the only one from the island Ralph had any contact with. He figured that the others wanted as little to do with him as he with them.

Ralph opened the fridge and took out some of the previous night's left over chowder. He didn't even like fish all that much, but pork and other meats had long lost their appeal for him. The very smell made him nauseous, so he either ate fish or no meat at all.

Settling down with his soup at the table by the window, Ralph looked out at the ocean that his home faced. He liked the ocean, despite everything. The water could be kind or cruel, but on its own terms and without reason, becoming angry or calm because of wind and currents, not blood thirst and cunning. He preferred to be out on the water on his ship then to be on land. The fish and the waves did not try to pick him apart or understand him.

When Ralph finished his soup, he stood and placed the dirty dishes in the sink, where he would wash them the next day. He took a sip from one of the several cups of water he kept lined up by the sink, and then moved to close the kitchen window against the stench outside.

Several paces outside of the window, a smell emanated from a dark pile. It stank of salt and rotting flesh, though not as much now as it did in the high summer months. The pile, nearly halfway as high as the window, was made up of tens upon tens of fish heads. It stood solitary and dark, facing off against the ocean in front of it and the trees to its side. The delicate skulls and sunken flesh kept constant watch for an unknown fear, a creature that lingered somewhere in the branches and the night. They remained as an offering for a beast that had found Ralph on the island and followed him throughout his years and across land and sea.

On an unnamed island thousands of miles away, all was peaceful, save for the charred bones in the jungle and the remains of two skeletons in the shallows. In London, Jack and Roger prepared to overtake the United Kingdom. In the forest by Ralph's cottage, the Lord of the Flies grinned into the night sky.


End file.
